As noted previously in relation to how I deal with pressure, Ibreakinto a gazillion pieces. “I’m…pretty certain.”
His attention strips me bare as his arms fold, muscles stretching his trench coat taut with the action. “How old are you?” he asks.
I crumple. “Twenty-two…”
“That’s ten years younger than me.” He frames his chin with his hand, pondering.
Ponderingwhatexactly? I don’t know.
Maybe ethics.
Because I think we lost those inside the building, and we should probably go back in and find them.
Or, you know,not, since it takes him about three seconds to shrug and say, “So there’s still probably hope.”
Hope for…what, exactly?
We have reachedconcerninglevels in the realm ofinfinity percentat the speed ofMach ten million.
In response, I might cower. But I’m sure it’sfine, probably. Grooming is only absolutely a serious crime, especially betweena party like myself—helpless, young—and a party like himself—celebrity, mature.
Ignoring every red flag he’s just set up in a pretty crimson circle around us, he says, with finality, “You’re old enough to make your own decisions. You can text your parents later and let them know you’re coming with me.”
I…think I’m being kidnapped.
The feeling heightens when Lukas’s hand closes around mine and he rips me away from my emotional-support railing. Turning toward the party, he sweeps the curtain aside and marches in. “I’m tired,” he murmurs, low. “We have a full day of driving tomorrow.” He snaps his fingers, and several people fall into step around us on his cue.
“Yes, Mr. Bachelor?” a man wearing a suit and an earpiece asks, keeping pace in front of me.
“I’m heading out. Let Jackson know I want to leave tomorrow early enough to make it back home for dinner.”
“Right away, sir.”
Before he can march off to do Lukas’s bidding, Lukas stops him. “Also, if someone could bring a plate of any leftover pastries to the bus, I’d appreciate it. Beyond that, I’d rather not be disturbed until it’s time to leave in the morning.”
“Of course.” The man cuts a suspicious look back at me, then leaves.
I…gulp.
Searching the crystalline room for much-needed assistance, I lock onto my manager serving our bakery’s exquisite collection of pastries at one of the elaborate display tables I helped put together early today. Her eyes find me and widen as her mouth falls open.
I beamhelpandmedirectly at her, going so far as to blinkSOSin morse code.
My manager—who seems to not know even the most basic morse code—nods enthusiastically and throws me two thumbs up.
No.No. You misunderstandddd, Ella! Ella, youmoron. I’m so clearly beingkidnapped against my will. What are you doing, throwing meapproval?
Stop standing there like a useless twit andsave me.
Anyone who’s seen a King music video knows that this man does not take his psychotic meds in the morning! It’s hot on screen, when he’s asking the audience to fall in love with his crazy eyes.
It is not hot when he’s got his hand around my wrist like a vice.
Dread builds, thundering in my chest, and the darkness of night swallows me again, this time since we’re leaving the building out the backdoor. Bodyguards encase us as Lukas drags me to his tour bus amid the stray cries of screaming fans and flashing cameras. Once inside the bus, the noise doesn’t settle, and my heart rate sure kicks up several notches.
“Couch or bed, cupcake?” Lukas asks.
My soul drops into my toes as he looks back at me.
